


Compartmentalization

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Series: Survivor Vee Wong [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 23:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5983570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haylen specializes in keeping her personal feelings separate from her duty to the Brotherhood. Until the Survivor blows it all up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compartmentalization

**Author's Note:**

> Some not-terribly-explicit sex happens when neither of them are in a good mental space. Completely consensual, but not happy.

Haylen sets her memories like her possessions, neatly arrayed and compartmentalized. She had few enough belongings before she joined the Brotherhood, but the memories overflow. Rubble and detritus vast enough to tower like a dilapidated ruin. So she tucks them away in boxes, files them into her mental warehouse. Discreet, organized. Dusts off the shelves once in awhile, tries not to choke.

She reviews her days nightly, as natural as scrubbing her teeth. Scrutinizes new information, polishes details. Commits to memory, keeps it accessible. Usually focuses on the things required of her, training and logistics, caches and supply drops. Memory-to-muscle for physical tasks, remembering the precise alignments of her sights and the blocks and counters drilled into her during hand-to-hand.

The first time Haylen meets the woman from the vault, Haylen takes no special care with the memory. Notes only the immediate physical details-- the woman’s long fingers and short-cropped nails. Dark eyes behind lenses so thick they distort the curve of her cheek. Pock-marks of acne never fully outgrown. Arrested in a moment of youth, despite the experience lining her face.

Danse is taken by her though, offers camaraderie and the Brotherhood. An open hand.

The woman snorts, twists the gold band on her left hand. “No thank you. Had enough military to last me two lifetimes.”

* * *

 

The second time Haylen sees the woman from the vault, she’s traveling with a synth in a trenchcoat. An _obvious_ synth, skin tarnished and chassis peeling. Mechanical, despite his nicotine-stained fingers. Exhales smoke through his cheek.

The woman from the vault-- Wong, Haylen remembers-- bristles at Rhys. Sharp words, a clash of tempers (and nearly teeth) before Haylen intervenes. Sends Rhys to the garage with Danse where they can work on armor repairs. Offers Wong and the synth seats in her office, heats water on the hotplate.

Wong shakes her head, perches on the edge of the desk. Ankles crossed, angled away from the door. Dripping water from her sleeves as she futilely wipes her glasses.

The synth pulls a handkerchief from an inner pocket of his coat, which Wong takes. Quick, small circles as she dries.

“I know the Brotherhood line on people like Nick, but we needed to get out of the radstorm,” she says curtly. Another aggressive swab. No apologies, no excuses.

Haylen pours hot water into two chipped mugs, dunks a yellowing teabag in each. Weak stuff, but enough to chase the cold from your bones. She offers one to Nick, but he shakes his head, so she takes it for herself instead. Picks her words carefully, sliding into her seat. “I don’t agree with the entirety of the Brotherhood’s stance, but their ideals are good.”

“So are the Minutemen’s,” Wong says. Jaw clenched, her mouth a harsh line.

“But the Brotherhood has the tech.”

Wong snorts, clicking her nails against the side of the mug. Sets her ring glittering. “So might makes right? Had enough of being _persona non grata_ before the war. Chinese, synth, ghoul. Don’t aim to recreate that now.”

Haylen revises her opinion on the woman’s origins-- vault suit and Pip-Boy could have been scavved, if she came from one of the tribes with the constant border skirmishes. Hardly a war by Commonwealth standards. “I’m not saying they’re right.”

Wong snorts, leans forward. Steam fogs her glasses as she takes a sip of her tea.

Haylen tamps down the part of herself that admits they might be wrong.

* * *

 

When the Prydwen returns, so does Wong.

“What changed your mind?” Haylen asks over another mug of tea. The brew is dark and smoky, bitter on the tongue. A new flavor, brought by their newest recruit.

Wong scowls. Pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I need to understand.” Rattles her toes against the floor. Taps her fingers against the ceramic mug, and Haylen notices the ring is gone. Not even a tan-line remains. Might have imagined it, if Haylen didn’t trust her memory.

After a beat, Wong says, “And you can call me Vee.” A practiced smirk at Haylen’s confusion. “Figure we’re working together-- sort of-- we’re on a first-name basis. Short for ‘Venus.’ My mother was an astronomy fan.”

* * *

 

Haylen continues compartmentalizing, distinguishing personal from private and duty from obligation. Starts saving cigarettes for Nick when he drops by with Vee. Continues practicing on the impromptu firing range, Rhys drilling corrections in her ear and calling targets. Continues acknowledging Danse as her superior officer, and Vee as…

...something betwixt and between. Rank is a polite fiction when Danse follows her eager as a puppy, and Vee takes on Rhys’ bloody cleansings with the same thorough searches she uses to scav parts for Haylen. Delegation of tasks and responsibilities, but equal in one another’s eyes.

They sit across from one another in the small kitchen, drinking tea as usual. Their knees bump-- an accident. But Haylen does not move her legs, does not protest at the hard-edged patella firm against the meat of her thigh.

Vee raises her gaze above the lip of her mug. Mouth obscured, glasses fogged. A crease on her brow, then a deliberate lift of her foot, running her toes along Haylen’s ankle.

“I like you. Very much,” she says slow. Words laid out like gun-parts, like metal and memory. “I hope I’m…” Coughs, turning her head. Cheeks red. Bites her lip, rips a shred of skin. Frustration turned inward. “I’ve always been shitty at this. I really like you, and I was hoping, maybe, the feeling was mutual.” Fingers still, gripping tight and blanching the beds of her nails.

And this might be another polished mistake for the charm bracelet of her life, but Haylen nods. Rankings, Brotherhood, roles set aside. Personal separates from duty as she tilts her face, sets down her mug and leans forward. Vee closes the breath of space between them, bumping noses and parting chapped lips.

And this, this-- this memory Haylen wants to hold tight, press between the pages of her mind. Stamp it indelible as ink. The rubber-tipped table legs squeak as she rocks forward on her elbows, cool mint and hot breath and an edge of salt as they kiss. Never let go, hold on to what is precious.

* * *

 

They steal their moments when they can, shave off precious hours from Elder Maxson’s missions and count every kiss a victory.

Vee brings back presents from her trips-- old novels, Jules Verne and _Frankenstein_ and comics. Brings back a little jewelry case, explains that each section would have held a lady’s personal trinkets and Haylen laughs at how knowledgeable Vee pretends to be, laughs at the luxury of collecting bracelets, rings, charms in enough quantity to require a box specially designed for that purpose.

But she uses it anyway, tucks in tags from the tea they drink. Slips in a spent energy cell from their first walk around the station together, firing at ferals. A crystal turtle figurine, no bigger than her thumb and surprisingly heavy.

Everything else Haylen owns is personal, but not private-- her guns, her clothes. Her scribe field notes and her other possessions devoted to the Brotherhood. In the event of her death, those supplies will be redistributed. Field scribe uniform, socks, underwear washed and rewashed until even her scent’s scoured. She will exist as a memory, a holotag in the scribes’ records and the rest of her effects dispersed for the greater utility.

This is personal. This is private. These items have no worth beyond their sentiment.

* * *

 

When Danse goes AWOL, Haylen directs Vee to their agreed-upon fallback site. Pleads for Danse, quakes all the wobbling stacks of personal and private and duty and obligation. Danse is a good man. The Brotherhood is family. Danse is family. Danse is...

Vee nods, squeezes Haylen’s hand and raises it to her lips. Kisses her knuckles. Meets her gaze with a promise stronger than words.

Nick pats Haylen’s shoulder as they leave.

* * *

 

Next time Vee visits, it’s with Danse in tow instead of Nick. Cruelty or kindness? No matter how good Vee’s intentions, they do not blot Danse’s sweat or still the tremor in his shoulders.

Danse attempts to make small talk with Rhys as Vee slips an arm around Haylen.

“Hey. I know this-- this whole thing has been rough.” Voice shaky, a rough pat on Haylen’s shoulder. Some attempt to soothe, though whether for herself or Haylen is unclear. “Think you can slip away for a few days? There’s a great bar in Goodneighbor, good music. I’m friends with the mayor, and he can make sure you’re taken care of.” Her glasses glint, obscuring her eyes as she wheedles, “Got a prepaid room…”

And Haylen’s heart rattles up her teeth, atria pumping. “Yes. Yes.” Has never taken a vacation before, but under the circumstances…

Haylen gets approval for R&R and agrees to meet Vee at the Third Rail.

* * *

 

Haylen leaves her radio in her room, sits at a corner table in the Third Rail. Sips a cold beer, peels the label while waiting for Vee.

Five songs, two beers, and a carefully shredded mound of paper later, Vee still isn’t there. But Vee’s friend the mayor comes in, along with a woman whose face is half-covered in burns. They sit across from her, crack jokes and buy another round. When Haylen asks about Vee, Hancock sighs. Takes a hit of Jet.

“Busy out there in the Commonwealth, you know? Could have hit a patch of raiders, taking the long way in.” Leans in, a whiff of sweat and ammonia. “Vee’s a tough broad. Worse comes to worst, she’ll come trooping in tomorrow with an exciting story and you’ll tell her all about the good times you had without her, right?”

And it _is_ a good time, fragile soap-bubble moment separated from the rest of her life. Throwing back drinks in a dingy bar with a robot bartender and listening to a ghoul tell increasingly outrageous stories about his adventures until even Fahrenheit’s calling bullshit and Haylen laughs until she cries, until she’s sputtering and Fahrenheit’s pounding her back while Hancock declares that means it’s time for fried molerat.

Fingers greasy, belly full, Haylen walks back to her rented room. Hits the mattress, falls asleep without bothering with her usual memory-sortment.

* * *

 

Wakes up to the radio squawk, emergency call. Prydwen’s down, people are dying-- Prydwen’s blown up, people are dead-- the Elder is dead-- everyone’s gone--

Distress signals on every Brotherhood channel. _Emergency, emergency_. Help, help. Betrayed, blinded--

Haylen’s no paladin, no savior. She never fully believed.

But there are still things worth fighting for.

She reaches for her laser pistol and it’s gone-- door’s locked and she’s trapped, trapped, tiny box of a room with too-soft bed and a window that won’t open and she beats her fists against the door, claws with broken nails and screams, screams, screams.

 _Help, help. Betrayed_.

“Very sorry, but Vee _will_ be back today, I promise,” the ghoul says from the other side of the door. “And you seem a nice lady for one of the tin-cans, but things are messy right now.”

Messy. Thoughts in disarray.

Haylen spends the rest of her captivity flipping through her memories, scrutinizing every detail and wondering what she missed.

But she only remembers her memories, and those are notoriously faulty.

* * *

 

Vee comes back smelling of ash and blood and ozone, gunpowder in every pore. Only her glasses shining and immaculate.

“I’m sorry,” are the first words out of her mouth.

A fist is the first response from Haylen.

Vee raises her arms, deflects so Haylen hits the wall and not her face. Sweeps her foot, trips so Haylen falls back but not before grabbing Vee’s coat. Yanks.

All their edges blurring, bloody knuckles and spittle. Grappling, so close they pass breath between their lungs.

Duty, honor, obligation.

Everything blurs. Heavy breathing, aching gut. Haylen bites Vee’s ear, hisses. Vee wedges her leg between Haylen’s thighs, leans forward to pin her. A forearm across Haylen’s chest, pressing on her sternum. Bleeding into one another, Vee’s split lip dripping onto Haylen’s cheek.

Haylen bucks her hips, grinds into Vee-- groans. Pressurized guilt, just waiting for the spark.

Vee wheezes, high and pained. Glasses spilling off her nose. “I’m so sorry. You’re free to go-- I just-- had to keep you safe while everything went down--”

“And what about the rest of the Brotherhood?” Haylen spits. “What about Rhys? And Ingram? And--”

“And if the Brotherhood won? What about Hancock? And Nick? And Danse?” Vee growls. “Curie and Kleo and Daisy and--”

Haylen pushes up with her elbows, means to butt heads. Knocks teeth instead, copper-edged clatter and it’s so much like a kiss that she starts crying, and then she’s crying so hard it’s like laughing--

“I’ll let you go, I swear, you’ll have your gun back and your stuff and you’re free to walk anywhere you want and I understand this means everything’s off--”

“Shut up and kiss me before my brain catches up,” Haylen whispers, because all her carefully-stacked crates of belief are tumbling, tumbling, memories flying everywhere. Ghost-images over everything they touch.

Their lips touch, and the tears streaking their faces are like that first time they kissed in the rain, cheeks stinging green and wet, yelping as they ran in for cover.

Haylen nudges Vee’s glasses, plucks them aside and resists the urge to crush them in her palm. Twists her fingers through Vee’s ponytail, makes a fist and pulls in close. Mouth open, acceptance without forgiveness. Gentle, gentle, soft-- hard edges and teeth, lips stained with death.

Everything hurts, so Haylen hurts back. Marks Vee’s neck with kisses, with bites, with love that bruises. Claws across the back of Vee’s neck, lifts her hips and ruts onto Vee’s thigh with a loud cry. Rides out orgasm like a hurricane, like the harsh exhilaration of her first Vertibird flight.

Curls on her side, after. Throat clenched, heart sore.

Leaves. Picks up her gun from Fahrenheit on the way out.

* * *

 

She follows a settlement recruiting beacon, has nowhere else to go. Brotherhood’s gone-- the few patrols she’s found are listless, directionless, headless snakes still thrashing because they don’t have sense enough to know they’re dead yet.

(She burnt all the gifts Vee gave her, threw the turtle down a sewer grate. Won’t throw away this last gift. Her second chance.)

She still has the skills the Brotherhood taught. Can fire her pistol, can hack a terminal. Army medic in all but name. Can’t do the full physicals and diagnoses of a proper doctor, but still. Useful enough to make her an asset to a settlement.

She’s surprised to find the Slog an exclusively-ghoul settlement. Expects to be dismissed, but their leader welcomes her warmly even _before_ she has a chance to share her skills. They offer her a bed, a workstation, a place to belong. Don’t ask her to explain where she came from.

Fresh start. Close off the previous chapter, remember that she is no longer Scribe Haylen.

* * *

 

When Vee comes to the Slog, it sets her bulkheads bursting.

Another polite fiction, masking pain as Wiseman introduces them all over again. They drink tea under one of the umbrellas by the tarberry pool, the air thick and sticky-sweet.

“How are you doing, here?” Vee asks. Knees tucked close, carefully angled away from her.

Haylen shrugs. “They’re nice. It’s all-- we’re doing well.” Bites her lip.

A single Brotherhood patrol could exterminate this entire settlement, if Vee hadn’t built the turrets that line every roof and fence. The same turrets that make short work of the mutant raiders could easily exterminate even a paladin in power armor.

Vee does not apologize.

Haylen does not expect her to.

But Haylen puts her hand on the table, fingers open and palm cupped.

A moment’s hesitation, and Vee rests her hand over hers.

Fresh start. Second chance.


End file.
